


Where There's Smoke

by baekyall



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2019-10-09 08:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17403596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baekyall/pseuds/baekyall
Summary: Aspiring pianist Baekhyun joins the Elyxion circus as a way to get off the streets and into a steady job. Finding his footing in this new world would be a lot easier if the star of the show, Chanyeol, wasn't so captivating.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note:  
> I almost set this story in 1920s Korea, but I came to the conclusion that it would not be for the best. I would hate to trivialize any of the atrocities that happened, offend anyone, or represent the era in a way that is inaccurate. To avoid this, I have set this in a fantasy country, one where the 1920s were flooding with booze and parties and distractions -- one where a circus would thrive, and Baekhyun would find himself in this situation. I hope that you understand why I did this, and I hope that this will clear up any vagueness in the setting, as I wanted this piece of fiction to stay just that: fictional. Thanks for all the support on my previous works, and I hope you enjoy this too. <3
> 
>  
> 
> (this was based off of one of my tweets by the way lol! https://twitter.com/baekyalls/status/1083410849400868864)

The air is thick with the scent of alcohol and cooking food, with the voices of hundreds of people, all enchanted and buzzing to the sound of booming voices from the silken tent in the distance. Amidst the chaos, Baekhyun watches fireworks dance their way into the sky, courting their partner with almost-touches and faint sparks of light before finally meeting in the middle, dyeing the black expanse a frothy red. 

Fireworks are beautiful, he thinks. Fireworks are the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

They are so much more beautiful than gray streets, than grubby hands grabbing for coat lapels, voices ragged with desperation and food and money. Anything is more alluring than a life begging for work, than a life where Baekhyun teaches piano to rich young ladies and avoids their eyes and questions fervently. A life where he hopes for another day of work and fumbles with numb fingers to teach folk songs, surrounded by a foreign type of opulence that makes him swallow hard -- fireworks are infinitely brighter. 

Baekhyun's catching his breath, dizzy and overwhelmed from the crackling sound in the sky, from the scarlet tint covering everyone in the vicinity. The crowd swells around the boy like the sea, crashing and foaming against his small frame, throwing him from place to place as he stumbles for anything to hold him steady in this flow of people. 

The circus is busy tonight -- or maybe this kind of rush indicates a slow night, after all. Baekhyun wouldn't know, as he'd never been before, not when his entire childhood and youth had been spent in the dull corner apartments and sidewalks of the city, his only talent keeping his blood circulating and stomach full. Piano kept him alive, and now it brings him to the circus, surrounded by women in satin dresses and fur shawls, thrown in among men whose suits shine with wealth and splendor. 

His own clothes blend in with the flattened brown dirt under their feet, muted earth tones that leave him feeling awfully drab, awfully out of place among all this magnificence. This new world of excitement and glamor seems to revolve around the silver tent, around the stream of people headed toward it. Baekhyun is one of them now, one of the circus-goers, the fabled magic's onlookers, and his knees wobble as he forces his body to keep up with the crowd instead of getting lost in it.  

"Watch where you're walking, son," the voice is gruff and weathered, obviously an older man. Before Baekhyun has even looked up to meet his eyes, he has honed in on his camel suit, on the shoes that shine despite the dust floating through the air. Wealth, his entire presence screams -- Baekhyun needs to grovel.

"I apologize, sir." 

He makes brief eye contact with the man, shrinking under his gaze, an animalistic instinct to make himself smaller crawling back to the surface of his consciousness. He hadn't expected this compulsion to follow him into the next chapter of his life, but he supposes that, no matter where he treks, there will be entitled men, and he will always cower below them. Years of huddled housing and cold nights on the streets leaves this rooted deep in his mind, no matter if he is on the streets or in the midst of the nation's best circus performers. 

And then he's scurrying away from the man, eyes focused on the rapidly approaching tent, on the loudening noises and intensifying smells. The Elyxion circus is shrouded in shimmering cloth and vivid signs, an explosion of paint and texture against this dark backdrop. As he draws closer, the entire area reeks of incense and honey and alcohol, like dreams and futures and nights of immeasurable entertainment. He isn't quite sure whether it is the crowd he's in or the circus itself, but here, there is electricity flowing through the air, and it feels as though he could bottle this moment in time if he tried hard enough, the entire atmosphere real enough to touch. 

The ocean of people parts in the middle, separate rivers flowing toward respective seating, and Baekhyun is caught in a waterfall, tumbling into the middle of it all, caught in confusion and drowned in silver fabric. He's inside the tent now, and, despite knowing very well that this is a respected circus, that tales of its wonder have been told far and wide, he hadn't expected any of what greeted him inside. Decadent drapes filled with glitter, velvet lining each corner, exotic food and drink lining the walls -- every square inch of this ring is filled with exquisite crafts and sparkling details. Baekhyun's mouth waters at the smell of the food, at the sight of the dancers off to the side, covered from head to toe in feathers and sequins and rouge.

It's overwhelming, but he loves it, adores the way his fingers tremble and his breathing quickens at each flash of movement. He was sent here, and he will remain here if it's the last thing he does. A dazzling, stupifying environment like this makes his mind reel with possibilities, with pride, with hope. There are no dusty streets waiting for him anymore -- no factories and stuffy houses with grand pianos and judging mistresses. He breathes in the heady mix of alcohol and saccharine treats, lets the delight of this new life fill his entire chest until he fears he may burst. 

He moves to stand off from the rest of the crowd and fumbles to grab the note he has shoved in his suitpocket, though he knows it's terribly crumpled by now. Hopefully, it will be enough -- and hopefully, chaos will become his new normal, glitter and drama drowning out each moment of his life, silencing the struggles of his past. The circus is a beautiful distraction to most, and a sanctuary to him. 

_Find Kim Junmyeon. He is the ringmaster of Elyxion Circus. He will recognize my name. Play for him._

And so Baekhyun throws himself back into the crowd, searching for any sign of a man with authority, for someone who seems to know where to find Kim Junmyeon. The man mentioned in the note, he had heard of in quieter days -- whispered stories of the fantasies that unfold at the circus, of the handsome man whose hands spin stories and whose captivating voice leave you speechless. The ringmaster is a master storyteller, a charming man that holds the gaze of all he encounters, and Baekhyun knows that when he sees him, he will know, deep down.

It's hard to distinguish a glittering showcomer from an actual worker, but Baekhyun manages to rest an uneasy hand on the elbow of a bedazzled girl, meeting her heavily lined eyes and the spider-like lashes that hang from them with uncertainty. She is beautiful but slightly terrifying, and Baekhyun smiles at her to disspell the anxiety that tingles deep inside him. 

"Excuse me. I am looking for Kim Junmyeon, the ringmaster," Baekhyun tries his very best to not let his eyes fall on her bare chest and the colorful swirls of glitter that span across it. He focuses on her shimmering makeup instead, mapping the curve of her lips under her inky blue lipstick. "Ma'am." 

She smiles at his hesistant formality, at the way his eyes dance across her cheekbones instead of trailing to the dazzling fringe that shakes with each breath she takes. He is nervous and dressed like a poor boy attempting to masquerade as a reputable man -- Baekhyun knows it, and so he offers her a tiny, embarrassed smile and hopes for the best. 

"And you are?" she drawls out each syllable, voice accented and lovely.

"Byun Baekhyun, ma'am. I'm a pianist. I was recommended by a former employer to audition for the band here," her eyebrows raise up, thin and penciled in, the tips of each accented with fake jewels. "I was told that Kim Junmyeon would help me to become part of the nation's greatest entertainment." 

She laughs at that, and a pale hand finds its way around his wrist, pulling him closer to her. She smells like an alcohol that he's never tried, potent and exhilerating and slightly staggering. She also smells like pressed roses, like dying flowers preserved in old books, like smiles that burn into the side of his head. Baekhyun looks around, trying to see if anyone in this crowded tent has noticed what is going on -- is he allowed to be this close to her? Is he allowed to distract her only an hour before the show must start? 

"I will take you to him, Baekhyun," a pause, and she says something to another dancer in a foreign language, hurried and bright. It's Chinese, he thinks, but he can't be sure -- it'd been years since he'd been able to read or understand much more than a few Chinese characters, since he'd last had the opportunity to try. "Nation's greatest entertainment, huh? You should try to use that phrase when you speak to him. He is rather proud of his circus, after all. He is a proud man." 

"Thank you, ma'am." 

"Song Qian," her lips go thin when she smiles, as dazzling as the dangling earrings that adorn her. "That's my name. You will meet more of the dancers if you are permitted to stay. Hopefully, we will meet again." 

And Baekhyun nods, eyes filled with her smile and the striped pattern of the curtain she is leading him to, a sickly pink and red combination that makes him nervous yet thrilled. Nothing here is beige or bland -- nothing here is quite like anything else he's ever experienced, and he finds himself relaxing against the dancer's grip on him, pleased to just bask in the assortment of hues and textures. The fireworks earlier had stunned his senses, and he had never come down from it, had never recovered fully, too entranced in each detail of the circus and the people inside of it. 

"Where is Junmyeon?" she's whispering to a man, voice low and secretive. Baekhyun suddenly understands that she is not supposed to call him by only his first name, and his mind races to file it away, to keep it in mind when he is in his presence. "I have a prospective pianist, apparently." 

The man turns to him, skin glimmering with some sort of sheen -- it is not sweat, but rather oil and glitter mixed together, a mess of silver and gold splayed over his tan skin. His eyes shimmer too, though Baekhyun doesn't think that has anything to do with the glitter but rather the light that is reflected from it. He is shining and confident, eyes mulling over each of Baekhyun's features for a moment too long. Baekhyun doesn't know whether to be offended or flattered by the odd look in his eye. He ignores the way he looks him up and down once again, trying to memorize the path they took to get here and the striking colors that grace every corner of his vision. 

"He should be in his office, I suppose," he licks his lips, and Baekhyun suddenly feels the urge to run away and hide, too swept up in the air he exudes to breathe properly. This man is powerful, and he knows it. "Are you sure he knows how to play piano? He seems as though he walked in off the streets. I am not sure our ringmaster needs to bother himself." 

Baekhyun should be offended, but he knows that he looks meager and sad compared to the rest of the bustling crew, compared to the ephemeral girl standing next to him. Her hand grips his wrist tighter, almost protectively, and the hopes that had started to sizzle in his chest reignite, suddenly blazing. He has one advocate, and for that, he will be eternally grateful. 

"I know nothing for certain, Jongin. But I do know better than to judge. You should try it." 

They push past him (Song Qian purposely, and Baekhyun by the will of her strong grip and hard eyes.) Baekhyun can't tell if the gaze he feels following him belongs to Jongin or the other performers in the room, but he knows his face has turned red. Even the gorgeous, yet precariously-hung chandelier cannot do much to distract him from the utter mortification running through his blood at the thought of this many people judging him as a poor conman, a fraud. 

"He is also a proud man, though a much more foolish one than our ringmaster," her words cut like knives, and Baekhyun hopes that Jongin hasn't heard them. "He is a contortionist, as am I. We work together every night -- there is no bad blood, so do not worry that your arrival caused anything. He is just the type of man that must be put in his place." 

Baekhyun thinks she is the most terrifying, thrilling, woman he has ever met. Before, when he'd scoured the streets for job openings and potential students, he would hope to meet someone like her, someone whose words are sharp and smile is soft. Baekhyun understands why Jongin quiets in front of her, why the other dancers part ways as she leads him to the back office. 

"This is it," her hand leaves his wrist, and Baekhyun has forgotten all the embarrassment and wonder from before, nerves filling his entire body within seconds. "Flatter his ego, and impress with your skills. You will be fine." 

There are soft, blue lips against each of his cheeks, lingering scent of unfamiliar alcohol and fading flowers attached to each. He barely has time to register the closeness of it, the impropriety of it, before she is gone and he is staring at a makeshift door, the most modest thing he's seen since he's arrived at the entrance to the tent. Every moment that he waits is another moment to panic, and so he knocks on the flimsy wood, hearing the way it echoes back at him in a hollow way, just like all the fake jewels he'd spotted on Song Qian, all the empty promises that luxurious fabrics and confident voices had whispered to him. 

"Come in." 

He is mildly surprised by the dark tone of this room, by the plain fabrics and patterns that make up the walls, the practical clothes that encompass the man before him. Ringmaster Junmyeon, he is sure, has his charms on the stage -- off of it, however, he finds himself underwhelmed, staring at a normal man in a normal suit, easily the most average of all in this circus. He thinks back to the glitz and the glam of everyone he'd met, to the sparkle that each performer exuded, and then back to the ringmaster in front of him. 

"Mr. Kim Junmyeon? Hello, sir, I am Byun Baekhyun, a pianist," his eyebrows raise, not recognizing the unknown young boy's name. Baekhyun scrambles to shut the door behind him, to match the intense gaze that he's receiving, suddenly realizing that Junmyeon is intimidating and powerful in ways that his clothes need not convey. "My former employer, Mr. Cho Kyuhyun, informed me that I would be a good fit for this circus' band." 

Junmyeon takes interest at that, eyes lighting up as he leans forward, elbows meeting the sturdy wood of his desk. Baekhyun's eyes trail to the papers and materials thrown across it, smiling internally at the way the ringmaster completely disregards them, eyes intense and focused on him solely. He is handsome and charming -- Baekhyun understands his role and reputation, suddenly. 

"Cho Kyuhyun? I know of him, yes. A rather talented playwright in his day -- we spent some of our youth together, writing. Although we ended up becoming different types of storytellers, I suppose. How were you employed by him, exactly?" 

"I taught piano to his niece when I could."

It doesn't sound like much, he realizes, and he feels very conscious of how the ringmaster's eyes have narrowed at his words.

"He was aware that, although I had a past of infrequent employment and, well, unfortunate circumstances, I was talented musically. When he heard of my interest in a career related to piano, he recommended that I call on his old friend to let me take part in this wonderful show." 

Junmyeon laughs at that, dry and not truly full of humor. Baekhyun's throat is closing.  

"We prefer to take in performers and musicians who strive to be here, who long for it with every fiber of their being -- I am not sure that you fit the bill. I am not sure you want this much more than any other job. Being part of the Elyxion circus is not playing piano for a rich man's pitiful niece." 

Baekhyun can only watch as Junmyeon stands and paces toward him, eyeing him up and down critically, critical gaze not missing a single nervous twitch. He is being observed, studied, and his mind flashes to Song Qian's words -- _flatter him and impress with your talents_. He will try his best to paint himself with Jongin's confidence, to walk in Song Qian's dominance for a brief moment, to play into Junmyeon's game of pride.

"I have always longed for a way to perform music. There is no greater honor than becoming part of the nation's greatest circus, to help put on the show of a lifetime every single night," Baekhyun's voice is sincere, raw over the thought of losing this opportunity at a new life, at existing in such a sparkling world, even if only for the briefest of moments. "I was drawn here by Mr. Cho's recommendation, yes, but there is something special about this circus that has always entranced me." 

"And what may that be?" 

His pride, his ego, his need for validation in everything his performers do -- Baekhyun has hit it, has cracked the shell of this charismatic man, and he is smiling sweetly toward the man. Years on the streets may have taught him to be tough, to withstand insults, but it had also taught him a vital lesson: play on the strengths, exploit the weaknesses. 

"Well, of course, it is the fact Elyxion is the only circus to remain solitary. There is no travelling done, as it is a national landmark in and of itself, and people will flock from far and wide to witness it each night. Being nonmoving, it is the only of its kind to have full orchestras, to have grand pianos and elaborate music and enthralling stages -- there is no rush in any of it, just dedication and elegance. It is magnificent, as everyone already knows." 

This is what he'd wanted to hear, what the man had longed for Baekhyun to lead with, and it's confirmed when a warm hand claps onto his shoulder, sheltering and frightening at the same time. Baekhyun's shoulders, already heavy with the weight of his future, with the absurdity of tonight, collapse under Junmyeon's commanding hand. 

"Our audience will have to judge whether you are truly talented or not, won't they?" Junmyeon's hand leaves him to grab for velvet cloth and glimmering scarves. Baekhyun's eyes widen at his words, at the way he shrugs off his dark suit coat and shrugs on an emerald green one instead, at the way his eyes change the second he is engulfed in velvet scarves and glimmering gloves. 

"Sir, do you mean --" 

"I would like you to play the score for Yixing's tightrope act tonight. It must be choppy and suspenseful -- you cannot play it with half a heart; it is not a children's nursery rhyme, as you teach," Junmyeon's aura is completely different, a new type of confidence and finality. He's tinting his lips pink from something inside his breastpocket, and Baekhyun watches with wide eyes as he uses the same to give himself rosy cheeks, eyes simmering with seriousness and face radiating warmth. "If you do not live up to our expectations, you will be leaving tomorrow morning, please. I do hope to see you at breakfast, though." 

Baekhyun isn't sure what he should say, too entranced by the way Junmyeon has changed in so little time, now a glimmering man with lips that sing of carnations -- he has gone into his character fully, has delved into the charm of a circus ringmaster, and he has granted this pianist the chance of a life time. 

"Thank you sir, thank you! I will try my best, I promise, I will memorize it as soon as I see the sheet music, I promise --" Junmyeon's smiling, hand back to resting on Baekhyun's shoulder, though this time his eyes follow it, resting on his clothes with obvious distaste. "Thank you for this opportunity. I will work hard, sir. I will make you proud."

"Make me proud by visiting the costumes and stealing something for yourself, please. No member of my circus -- no matter how hidden -- wears this dusty color. It simply will not happen." 

\-- 

He's in sky blue and covered in glitter -- not fully intentional, so to say, but rather, every piece of clothing is drowning in it, leaving him a glimmering mess of ocean waves and blooming blue flowers by the time he's fully dressed. A tiny girl tied a sequined piece of fabric tight around his neck, tucking it into his shirt and leaving, and, truly, the more he looks at it, the more he is convinced that he must be dreaming this moment. 

He has never looked in the mirror and seen someone who sparkles, who dazzles, who reflects light and dyes those around him with easy smiles and music. In this makeshift outfit and infectious shimmer, he feels like a new person, completely reinvented from the Baekhyun who is quiet and whispers when his students hit the wrong note, the Baekhyun who fights for a way to sleep in a warm place at night, feeling guilty every time he is the one who lucks out.

Gone is the Baekhyun who shakes in front of his employers, the one who fears tan boys with lazy smiles and beautiful women with blue lipstick. Now, he is one of them -- in an odd, tiny way, he is a piece of this show, a piece of the diamond that glitters for onlookers to gaze at.

Now, he is part of Elyxion circus, and he shimmers most brightly when he is performing his music, staccato and panicked, just as Yixing is acting to be. 

Zhang Yixing, a rather nice, quiet man as far as Baekhyun can tell, transforms himself for the crowd, too. His tiny voice and shy smiles are gone when he is balancing, muscles taut and face shining with sweat more than anything else. Baekhyun had memorized the notes, the standard, nerve-inducing song he was to perform. His eyes trained on the man walking fifty feet above him, he lets his fingers move slowly, lightly, only intensifying their progression through the chords when Yixing makes an exaggerated shaking motion. There is no fear in his eyes, but the dramatic effect that he imposes upon the audience leaves Baekhyun struggling to breathe along with them, something deep down inside him whispering  _the net is not enough_. 

But the tightrope walker is talented at this, trained in balance and theatrics, and Baekhyun's fingers speed to catch the end of the song as Yixing makes his final escapade across the thin rope, narrowly making his way to the other side. The crowd is yelling frantically, and Baekhyun is sweating through his new shirt, through the layers of makeup and glitter and fear that he had built up.

It is over, and he feels alive, stomach rolling with each voice that shouts from the crowd, from each excited voice that drifts from backstage. All he can think about is the way multiple hands receive him eagerly, proud of the new guy, voices excited and welcoming -- Baekhyun has never felt this many emotions bubbling inside him before, and he is sure he will burst at some point. 

Not that it matters, truly -- he will have breakfast here tomorrow, the next day, and the next. He will meet those fond gazes lovingly, will melt into the laughter and alcohol of the circus, of the people who he is surrounded by. He will close his eyes and feel as though the shimmering material of his shirt has wrapped him up completely, has eaten him from the inside out, has replaced every moment of doubt in his life with glitter and excited laughter. 

\-- 

His fourth drink -- maybe fifth, actually? -- doesn't even burn his throat. By now, his entire body is numb, filled with a heat that he didn't know he could feel. His cheeks are on fire, and he's laying in the lap of someone he doesn't know, a nice boy with tiny hands and a laugh that makes him laugh too. Baekhyun finds himself playing with the hands that are resting on his hips, leaning against a sturdy neck while everyone around them hoots and hollers, making his head spin and twirl and dance (just like Song Qian and Jongin did earlier that night.) 

The colors in this part of the ring are deep and rich like a painting come to life, a clash of colors and patterns and people's voices. Overwhelming and comforting -- happy and exhausted, filled to the brim with confusion and contentment. 

"Minseok, why are you cuddling the new guy?" a boy around Baekhyun's age pouts, and Baekhyun giggles because  _he's the new guy_ , and he  _is_  being cuddled, after all. He likes it. He was never this close to anyone before, not even the people he considered friends, not even the ones he'd wanted to hold like this. "You normally lead the drinking games."

This tiny room and the curtains that surround it make him feel safe, loved, and he doesn't even care that he's never been this drunk in his life, that he's never met any of these people before. He doesn't even care that, usually, he'd be panicking over how he would pay for a single drink on his own, and now he is downing them and falling into strangers arms to dance with them across patterned rugs. 

"He's drunk, really drunk," Minseok's voice is close and Baekhyun likes the way his nails are tinted different colors. It's a type of beautiful that he didn't know boys were allowed to be, and Baekhyun wants to do it too -- he wants to wear eyeliner and lipstick and color his nails however he wants. He wants to live in vibrant colors and drink vibrant drinks and interact with vibrant people. "Don't think I should leave him alone. He doesn't know his way around yet."

Baekhyun laughs at that, rolling around in Minseok's grip and letting his head rest against the shorter's sweaty collarbones, completely serene with this development. Minseok is nice -- Minseok is his new best friend, he's decided. The room goes silent for a moment, and it makes him look up, scared suddenly -- maybe this was a dream, and he is back in a shabby town with people who look at him with nothing but pity. 

Instead of familiar judging eyes, he meets new ones -- deep brown and big, a faint hint of charcoal black eyeliner in the corner of each. Baekhyun's eyes follow the slope of his nose and land on his lips in a sleepy haze, warmth overtaking him when the new eyes don't look away, overpowering him in every way he thinks possible. He is so tall that it is intimidating, standing out against doorway.  He is still holding their eye contact, and Baekhyun is confused, so confused, so dizzy and full of liquor that he can't think clearly. 

"Ringmaster Junmyeon wants to see Minseok later about his act," his voice is deep, and Baekhyun recognizes suddenly that the tall stranger was staring at the man holding him, not truly  _him_. His stomach pangs with nausea and a bit of disappointment. "Something about a new trapeze trick he should learn. And quiet down. Some performers like to actually sleep." 

His long legs are moving before Baekhyun's brain is, and his head is spinning against Minseok's chest. That man was attractive and intimidating -- Baekhyun doesn't know if he likes the combination, or if his drunken brain is fooling him into thinking that man made the room tilt a little more. 

"Who was that?" Baekhyun whispers it to Minseok, voice slurred and eyes bleary.

"That's Park Chanyeol," a sigh from under him, and suddenly Baekhyun is being moved from the man's chest to sit on his own, despondent. "He's our big finale, and he thinks that makes him a walking god. Just ignore him -- he keeps to himself, and we keep to ourselves. There's no need for you to worry." 

Baekhyun nods, although he thinks Minseok may have misinterpreted his interest for fear. But that can stay his secret, so he giggles in response and takes another drink. His stomach rolls with the new wave of alcohol, with the shimmering way he wants to bring Chanyeol down to their level and entrance his confident eyes with piano music and glimmering smiles. 


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey..... lol 
> 
> i know it's been a really long time, but family stuff + school just got out of control! i am really really sorry, and hopefully i'll be back to posting regularly as summer gets into full swing and i have some more free time! 

Minseok teaches him to exist in all the ways he hadn’t dreamed possible. It starts the day Baekhyun, excruciatingly curious, asks how Minseok makes his fingernails such a color, how he keeps his skin and hair glowing without any thick makeup or glitter involved. The older boy is radiant even when he’s not performing, glowing with compliments and his own pride, and Baekhyun trips over silk and fallen stars as he enters Minseok’s tent that afternoon. 

He stares on, transfixed, as the older boy delicately tints his nails a bright red, as those small fingers and hands wrap around his so easily -- Minseok’s skin is velvety against the calluses that mar Baekhyun’s. Delicate as the piece of hair that falls against his forehead, Minseok paints the younger’s nails with precision, his satisfied grin crashing into Baekhyun like a wave.

“Pretty color, right?” Minseok’s blowing on his fingers, lips glossy and petal pink, just like Baekhyun had noticed the first night he’d been here, the first night he’d been held in his life. “Your fingers are pretty, too. Probably from all that piano.” 

His mind races with the realization that such gentle people exist, that there are boys who are softer than all the women he’d ever met and taught and feared. Despite the new environment and duties, despite the way his mind still rings with fresh memories of drunken nights and glittering jewelry, Baekhyun feels at home when he’s sitting here, knees touching Minseok’s as rain serenades the walls around them. 

“I saw the ringmaster putting a balm on his lips,” Baekhyun tries to count the colors painted across Minseok’s eyelids and fails, getting too distracted by his thoughts in the end. “Do you use the same? I’ve never seen anything like that for men. I didn’t know it was allowed.” 

Minseok searches his face for something Baekhyun can’t quite place, lined eyes widening even further, and goes completely still. Fearing that he’s done something bad, Baekhyun instinctively moves further away from him, the friction between their legs completely gone in an instant. But then Minseok is smiling, hands moving to cup Baekhyun’s cheeks fondly, and he is boiling over once again. 

“This isn’t the real world, Baekhyun,” Minseok’s fingers move to brush over his lips delicately, and Baekhyun feels like he might be sick. His vision is blurred by the older boy’s presence, by the electricity that clouds his bloodstream. 

Touching is something he’d never been allowed, something he’d never grown accustomed to; Minseok never hesitates to let his gaze and hands linger where they so please.

“What do you mean?” Baekhyun asks it against the fingers on his lips, realizing just how alive human contact makes him. He can’t believe he’s gone this long, doesn’t think he ever will again, not when he knows the warmth he’s capable of feeling. 

“Rouge and balm and glitter makes you stand out. They’re good. There are no rules of that kind here,” Minseok’s hands are gone, and Baekhyun leans forward, vying for more of the older’s affection. “Our only job is to perform well.” 

An entire world that runs on the thought of shining brighter than others, on being the center of attention -- it sounds foolish to Baekhyun, for he’s aware that standing out can make you a target, can make you seem odd and soft-hearted when it’s best not to be. It can take away dreams and warm beds and friends, he knows. 

But now there is a boy sitting in front of him, smelling of spices he can’t name and adorning himself with everything beautiful the world has to offer, and Baekhyun wants to stand out, too. 

“If there are no rules, can I try?” he’s cautious when he asks it, knowing far too well that it isn’t best to ask for favors, but then again, nothing Minseok has ever done has been something he can understand or predict. 

And then there are soft hands on him again, painting his cheeks the color of a spring carnation and his eyelids as red as the wine they all sip at night, just enough of a difference from his tanned skin to make him feel as though he must be glowing, to match the soft scarlet that rests upon the bow of his lips.

Outside, he hears the shouts of other performers as they pass by Minseok’s tent, smells the kitchen’s firing up, the smoke and the fire and the spices that dance through the air. Despite the rain outside, there is no stopping a night of entertainment. Nothing stops the music from playing, the dancers from dancing -- this he has realized. Baekhyun lets Minseok’s fingers sketch out the curves of his eyes, lets them carve his cheekbones with an artist’s hand, so steady and focused that it’s reminiscent of his composure on the trapeze, controlled and graceful. 

“Do you get scared?” he has no business to be asking this as a lowly piano player, but Minseok has never shown him anything but kindness, and he’s so, so curious. “All the way up there, with only a net under you, jumping. I get scared just watching Yixing walk the tightrope.” 

Minseok’s voice radiates warmth when he responds, and Baekhyun’s heart soaks it up like much needed sunshine. 

“That’s rather cute,” he drags his pinky across the outer corner of Baekhyun’s eye, cleaning up his canvas. “And, no, Kyungsoo has never missed a catch. I trust him, and the girls I catch trust me, and we don’t get scared. At least, that’s what we all tell each other.” 

He giggles and it registers like tinkling bells in Baekhyun’s mind -- Minseok’s laugh is the sound of the wind chimes that promenade across his students’ porches, of porcelain tea cups meeting polished tables.

This pampering must be done, after so many minutes of gentle admiration and explanation, after all the lingering touches that stain Baekhyun’s cheeks and lips. But, no, there’s much more, Baekhyun realizes, when Minseok dips his fingers into a soft pink oil resting on his vanity, when he stands and wraps his fingers between each strand of Baekhyun’s hair, when he lets blunt nails meet Baekhyun’s scalp. There is so much happening, so many sensations and emotions he hadn’t realized he’d missed out on, and Baekhyun belatedly realizes that he’s on the verge of tears.

It’s too much all at once -- Minseok’s voice and touch and reassurance is soaking into his skin, leaving him coated with longing for more, with a want for constant affection. It’s addicting. 

“Next time you wash your hair, come back,” Minseok ignores the pearly pink tears in the corner of Baekhyun’s eyes, if he even notices them at all. “I’ll put more in. It’ll make your hair soft and you’ll smell like roses.” 

“Thank you,” and it’s only been a few days since he’d arrived in this chaotic place, but there are flower buds taking hold of his chest, and he likes the way Minseok makes them bloom. “Thank you so much.” 

The older boy says nothing, simply releases one hand from Baekhyun’s hair from his delicate grasp and collects the shimmering powders and creams he’d just used. They’re piled into Baekhyun’s lap, and it’s silently understood that they’re for him to keep. Never has he received a gift like this, never so casually, never without any pretenses or demeaning words thrown along with it.

He isn’t sure how to react to this moment, so instead of forming a complete thought, he just leans his head back against Minseok’s remaining hand, closes his eyes, and hopes that this feeling of comfort will last long after the older’s doting has ended. 

\--

_Baekhyun,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Junmyeon has informed me of your employment and thanks me for the recommendation. I hope you are able to stay at the circus. Yerim misses your lessons dearly, but I know you are destined for something greater than teaching showtunes to a spoiled girl._

_She pleads to come and see her tutor, and I am nothing if not a fool for her. Expect us both in a few months when I have finished production for my current show._

_Stay healthy in the meantime,_

_Cho Kyuhyun_

_\--_

_Dear Mr. Cho,_

_I will write you of everything I experience. I would not be here without you, and so I will make sure to appease Yerim’s curiosity with all the fantastical things I see and do._

_Enclosed is a drawing of what the tent looks like, and a small story detailing the night I met the performers -- I think she will like Song Qian best, or maybe the mysterious Park Chanyeol. I cannot be sure of a young girl’s heart, but I know they both captured my attention when I arrived. Send her my wishes for health and peace._

_I will never be able to thank you enough,_

_Byun Baekhyun_

_\--_

He soon learns that it is hard to tell of all he does, if only because each second holds a thousand words, each movement an entire novel. The constant chatter and activity both on and offstage form a melody that plays through his mind over and over, chords chaotic and all-consuming -- but only for a moment. Each frantic scream and acrobatic trick lasts no more than a second before it’s erased by the warm thrum of a cheering crowd, drowned by a familiar swig of alcohol and Song Qian’s giggles against his shoulder. 

Tonight, he tries to memorize the smoke that holds him captive backstage, tries to think of ways to describe the frantic drumming that surrounds Chanyeol’s entrance into the ring. Yerim will undoubtedly like their untouchable prince of the circus best, he decides -- he is tall and arrogant and Baekhyun hasn’t seen him converse with anyone besides the ringmaster. Not that he’d tried. Minseok had warned him to avoid him altogether, citing just how many years Chanyeol has been here, just how much the ringmaster adores him, just how little he cares about the other performers. 

Even so, Baekhyun can’t help but watch his straight teeth when he talks, follow the movement of his judging eyes as they avoid any contact, note the dip of his collarbones and the width of his shoulders. He knows his young student will feel the same sort of bewitchment for such a man, for such talent, for such beauty. 

Ordinarily, Baekhyun opts to leave after his and Yixing’s tightrope duet, following Minseok and Kyungsoo back to a different tent with different people and different pleasures each night, abundant with drinks and foods and languages he only hopes to understand. In those moments, he takes Song Qian’s hands so softly, twirling her around the room with him, dancing to the drunken humming of other performers and musicians. The world is nothing but faint light cast by oil lamps, his conscious completely barren spare the heat of her head leaning on his shoulder. Each day he realizes it more -- for contact, for praise, for affection, he is insatiable. 

After they dance, Baekhyun finds Minseok’s reassuring touch and Jongin’s unyielding gaze in a familiar corner, makes himself comfortable amongst them both. He disregards the excited cheers that always drift from Chanyeol’s performance, Minseok rolls his eyes when the tallest performer is mentioned, and then Sehun and his assistant, Boah, make their way past too, smiles reaching their eyes in a way that makes Baekhyun stare after them both. 

But tonight is different; he will not leave. Tonight, he will search for the perfect prose to encapsulate the way Chanyeol glows under those orange lights, the way the fire he handles dances around him as if it’s trained. Tonight he will write to the niece of his benefactor, and he will make it all sound magical. 

Thinking of Yerim’s tiny hands struggling to keep up with the notes, remembering her delicate lace dresses and kind words, he thinks that there wasn’t only dirt and dust in his past. Maybe a part of him misses playing silly tunes for hours on end, watching his students light up when familiar melodies waltz through their sitting rooms. While he’ll never miss the gnawing hunger and aching hands, there are people that glimmer like lost jewels in the murky water of his youth. 

His thoughts are drowned out by the crowd, and Baekhyun’s blurry eyes capture the chance from normal white lighting to an ablaze orange, covering the entire crowd with a faux sunset. 

Ringmaster Junmyeon is shouting something, but Baekhyun isn’t focused on him, only on Chanyeol’s broad frame, covered in sweat and glitter and silk. Expensive, Baekhyun thinks -- he looks priceless, untouchable, otherworldly. It makes Baekhyun feel warm and uncomfortable, choking on the dark red cloth that barely covers the chest in front of him, at the rubies that adorn his wrists and clutch his neck. 

Then he’s moving, strong and swift, flip after flip across a beam that’s far too high for Baekhyun’s comfort. In an instant, the net below him is in flames, and Chanyeol’s engulfed too. He must be burning alive, the pianist thinks, but he’s far too fast, graceful in a dastardly way, and he avoids the flames as if he can predict their every movement, as if they part for his leaps and stunts. In only an instant, Chanyeol is on the floor, and he waves to the crowd, ignoring the embers that circle him, ignoring the shocked yelling from the audience. 

Baekhyun cannot believe his eyes -- Chanyeol’s hands and red sleeves seem as though they are on fire too, but he’s unbothered by it all, smiling into his next flip, into his next step. He shimmers and glows along with the fire he controls, a fallen star shooting across the ring, leaving trails of ash and glimmering smiles with each step. Baekhyun’s throat has completely dried, his normal breathing pattern having stopped the second it seemed as though Chanyeol would become a catalyst for the blaze. 

Before he can fully map how the tall boy’s strong arms raise in pride at his last feat, there is heat burning into his own arm, though not nearly as hot as the fire that crackles against Chanyeol’s skin. He turns, shocked, fearing that he’s stepped too close to the curtain, that he’s visible to the audience -- it must be the ringmaster here to scold him. 

Instead, his fearful eyes meet lined eyes and thin lips, his entire body shrinking under a smoldering gaze that he’s only ever seen in passing.

“You’re sweating,” Sehun’s voice is as scratchy as the clothes Baekhyun arrived in, his touch as smooth as the silk that sits upon his shoulders now. “Are you nervous just from watching?” 

“I’ve never stayed to watch Chanyeol perform, and I didn’t realize how close he gets to the fire. It’s fascinating. Well, truly, it’s terrifying.” 

There is no more heat seeping into his arm, only warm puffs of air from the taller’s breathing -- Sehun is impossibly close to him, lips feather-light against his flushed cheek. Baekhyun’s head dances like Chanyeol’s body, teetering around flames and embracing the smoke that rises from them. Everything in Sehun’s presence is off putting, overwhelming, and stimulating in a way that Minseok never is, that no one has ever been.

“Have you ever watched my performance?” his lips pull away, and now Baekhyun can see the clouds in his eyes clearly, can only hope to count the stars that lie beyond them. “Boah and I work hard to train the animals; I hope you worry about my safety too.”

“I have only seen some parts of--”

“You can tell me later, if you’re planning on entertaining yourself with drinks and songs as you usually do. Tell Minseok it’s time he lets someone else share your company for a night.” 

He is lost for words, enthralled with the way Sehun’s lean legs slink away from him, disappearing among the curtains and ropes around them, the only indicator of his presence the burning imprint of lips against Baekhyun’s cheek. The crowd erupts, louder than ever before, and Baekhyun has missed Chanyeol’s final stunt, only catching his bowing figure as multicolored, shimmering lights start their promenade across the ring and into the crowd. Just like that, all the air has escaped from Baekhyun’s lungs, the crowd’s anticipation crawling its way out, too. 

Sehun’s sudden appearance, the way Baekhyun’s heart fluttered at the slightest trace of affection -- he knows he yearns for the something that swam in Sehun’s eyes, knows he’d do whatever it takes to dive in again. Sehun was far too close, and Chanyeol is too hard to describe in words. His head hurts.

\--

“I want to write to a former student, but I can’t find the words to describe anything here. It’s all so different.” 

Minseok’s painted fingers wrap around his flute of champagne, and Baekhyun can only watch as he sips from it, ignoring the soft-spoken words in favor of nodding his head along to the faint thrum of chords from the other side of the room. 

“I have never met anyone like the people who perform here, and I know she hasn’t either. I’m at a loss. There is no way to describe, well, anyone, I suppose.” 

He hopes the older boy didn’t pick up on his word choice, on the way his eyes flickered to the entrance of the tent as he spoke, searching for a tall boy who dances with fire. He can’t articulate Chanyeol’s being, no matter how many times he replays his movements in his mind, no matter how many times he thinks of the night he’d arrived, of the gaze that pierced through his drunken stupor. 

“That’s easy,” Minseok sets down his drink, thigh rubbing against Baekhyun’s as he settles back into the corner of the couch, head sleepily resting on the younger’s shoulder once again. “I’m sweet and talented, your favorite. Jongin is, generally, annoying -- and Song Qian is a darling. Kyungsoo is too smart to be here. Chanyeol is an awful brat. I could go on and on, but you know all those words, so I’m positive you can finish for me.” 

Baekhyun stays silent, suddenly feeling squeamish about Minseok being so close to him, his body heat searing and his tone wounding. The trapeze artist may be the person he is closest to, may be the source of his glittering cheekbones and newfound confidence, but there is a constant fear of being nothing more than a plaything, a project, for him.

His entire life, no one has spared genuine affection for his sake, help coming only as a transaction, and, even as he feels Minseok’s head go limp, almost asleep, against him, his heart jumps with the thought of being thrown aside on a whim. In moments like this, when Minseok’s words aren’t pillow soft, when he’s tired and tipsy and brazen, Baekhyun fears that there may be no affection hiding in his heart after all. But he will do anything to keep the attention he’s received, to lock it deep inside his heart and swallow the key -- he will do anything to feel this uncomfortable warmth, to soothe the terror of loneliness that makes his fingers tremble with a phantom cold. 

“Sehun talked to me earlier,” Baekhyun whispers, unsure if the waves in his stomach are from his residual fear or this new excitement, even as they inundate him completely. “His lips touched my cheek. I can’t be sure if it was on purpose.” 

Minseok wakes up quickly.   

“It was intentional, I guarantee,” worriedly, his eyes search Baekhyun’s face. “He flirts and flirts and flirts. Song Qian has no patience for him, and I know she’s only waiting for the day where she can yell at him -- do you want her to make him stop?” 

Suddenly feeling a lot less special, Baekhyun stills, slightly dejected. Until today, he hadn’t realized that lips were that soft, even if they belonged to a boy -- youth spent working and fearing never let him experience things like infatuation, never allowed him to act on any sort of physical affection he’d yearned for, and he certainly hadn’t expected him to receive it from someone of the same sex. 

“He flirts with _everyone_? Even, you know, me --” Baekhyun sees the way Minseok’s shoulders slack at his question, watches the older rub his eyelids drowsily, orange eyeshadow moving to his fingertips. “I have never seen --” 

“I already told you,” Minseok smiles in a way that makes Baekhyun feel comforted, safe, and he likes the way the older’s face is getting closer, too. “This isn’t the real world. Anyone likes anyone. Our only job is to perform well.” 

“Have you kissed someone?” Baekhyun tries his very best to remain neutral with his tone, though deep down, his pulse is bursting with curiosity, with the thought of what Minseok’s lips would feel like, what artwork his closed eyelids would unveil. “I mean, since you came to perform here?” 

“I’ve kissed boys and girls and people who don’t call themselves either,” Minseok shrugs at his own words, leaning away from Baekhyun once again. “There are no rules, Baekhyun. Do what makes you happy.” 

“What if,” Baekhyun’s mind is filling with too many images, overrun with thoughts he’d never watered -- now they bloom unprompted. “What if kissing someone like Sehun would make me happy? At least, I think it would.”

Even now, in this dim light snuggled close to Minseok, he can picture what he looks like to others, can imagine the sharp lines of his cheekbones and chin, can imagine the blush and glitter that illuminate him. In his colorful, soft clothes and vibrant makeup, Baekhyun no longer feels like a scampering fool in the dusty streets -- he might even be pleasant to look at. 

And maybe he hadn’t ever had time to think about lips brushing against his, much less enough time to picture the face that he opens his eyes to, but now, it could be _anyone_. The possibility makes his heart soar, lifts a burden he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

 “You are smart enough to know what you want,” Minseok says it gently, as tender as the small finger that brushes a piece of hair off of Baekhyun’s forehead a second later. “Entertain his affections, if you want, but don’t give your heart to someone like Sehun -- you’re much too good for _that_ , trust me _._ ” 

It makes Baekhyun laugh, the fondness in his tone; Minseok is like no other in his life, so sweet and so patient, so willing to bring out the best side of him, even if he pesters and whines along the way, even if he has a long way to go before he can glimmer naturally in the same way as the older.

“I don’t plan on giving away my heart,” he flushes, remembering the feel of Sehun so close, at the way his brain had screamed for more. “I just want to see what makes me happy.” 

And he’s proven correct when, two glasses of champagne later, Baekhyun’s dance with an acrobat girl is interrupted by a hand on the crook of his elbow, gentle and nearly limp, a clear indicator that the perpetrator is inebriated as well. 

“Can I dance with you?” 

Sehun’s words are slightly slurred, but it only makes them sound sweeter to Baekhyun’s muddled brain, and he melts into a nod, soft as satin when strong arms find his hips and lead him toward the edge of the group. He can’t do much but feel the awkward sway of their bodies together and memorize the melody of the song from the phonograph in the corner, head dizzy from the mumbling voices of the other dancers and Sehun’s own humming. 

Being in his arms feels like unlocking the door to a secret room, a treasure trove of new emotions and hopes, a glimpse into a future that finally makes sense. When they drift over to the corner, fairly out of sight, and Baekhyun’s lips are covered with another’s for the first time in his life, he breathes heavy through his nostrils, self-conscious and elated all at once, completely overstimulated. 

“Have you never been kissed?” Sehun laughs a little when he pulls away, breath warm against Baekhyun’s face, making his cheeks even pinker than before. “That’s cute. Makes me want to kiss you more.” 

The taller boy makes no attempt to kiss him again, though, taking a moment to study the complexities of Baekhyun’s facial structure, to run a thumb under his eye delicately. 

“Minseok knew that you were pretty, and he made you prettier. Don’t let the ringmaster see you all glittered up, he might just make you play piano where you can be seen better.” 

Sehun’s look doesn’t convey love, but rather blatant interest, raw fascination. Baekhyun knows that there’s something in Sehun’s gaze that promises to make him feel alive in even the coldest of nights, something that guarantees to engulf him with eager lips and heated touches if he lets it. And so he allows Sehun’s arms to envelope him once again, this time moving his lips softly against the taller boy’s, envisioning the first fireworks he’d ever seen, tasting all the wine he’d ever dreamed of, drowning in nothing but silk and lace. 

\--

_Dear Mr. Cho and my dearest Yerim,_

_I am still searching for words to describe my new life. They elude me._

_I wish I could tell you more interesting observations, but the only thing that comes to mind as of now is the following: everyone here owns at least four outfits, and all of them are so bright my eyes hurt when I tell them good morning. Sometimes, I fear I’ll go blind before I can get any better at the piano._

_Also, during the third performance last week, one of the magicians, Kim Jongdae, proposed to a dancer after the final bow. I do believe Yerim might’ve cried if she’d seen it. (The ring is as gaudy as you would expect!)_

_Best wishes for your health,_

_Byun Baekhyun_

\--

He doesn’t give up on catching the flames that surround and interact with Chanyeol’s figure in prose, opting to watch him as he walks by, to study him while he performs, to sketch the outline of his figure properly in the lamp light of his crowded musician’s tent. Sometimes, he trods the way over toward the performer’s single tents, past Minseok’s, and slips into bed next to Sehun, relishing in the body heat and now-familiar touches, if only to think about his future and his writing in a place devoid of other eyes. 

That night, he’d sat, enthralled, as Chanyeol ran through his routine easily, attractive smile and intense eyes as dazzling as the orange flames around him. That night, Baekhyun had felt Sehun’s hands hold him steady, had thrown his head back and hoped that the usual festivities were in full swing, loud enough to cover the sounds of his stuttering breaths, of Sehun’s gratifying murmurs in his ear. 

Even as he settles into that drowsy heat Sehun gives off, feeling satiated with the physicality he’d so craved and adored, Baekhyun can’t stop his brain from supplying adjectives for the boy who fears no flames.

In the end, he wiggles out of Sehun’s touch, ignoring the rough cloth of the sheets as they steal back the comfort he’d just recieved. He squints into the darkness, looking for his journal, determined to find a fountain pen in the clutter of Sehun’s vanity, mind racing with the only word that will convey Chanyeol’s existence to Yerim.

 _Chanyeol is captivating_. 

That night, he mumbles an excuse about needing to read more sheet music and stumbles from Sehun’s tent, shocked to find a muddy wasteland waiting for him outside -- the rain had never made it so miserable outside, and he’d been too lost in his own satisfaction and ponderings to realize it happened at all. 

Tucking his journal under his armpit and hoping for his shoes to refrain from sinking into the slosh all around him, he puts his head down and dashes into the storm, rain hitting him like the cold pangs of hunger he’d once felt, wind whipping him with a veracity similar to the exhaustion that plagued his youth. In this labyrinth of grey nothingness, there is nothing for him to focus on, no direction for his eyes to follow -- if not already, he will soon be lost in the midst of a violent storm. An orange flicker gleams over his left shoulder, and he spins to locate it, hope flaring in his chest, sending up sparks he knows will cut through even the darkest of clouds. 

“Hello?” Baekhyun’s voice is lost to the wind, his own tone unfamiliar when coupled with the howling chorus and torrential drumline currently performing. “Hello?” 

And so he runs toward it, favoring his chances with barreling into a tent or someone with a lamp rather than stay in this void until sunrise -- he knows it takes no effort to die of pneumonia, and that fear alone pushes him forward with a strength he wasn’t fully aware he possessed. 

By the time he arrives within a few feet of this mysterious glow, his eyes are barely open, squinting against the downpour. But what he can make out is clear -- Chanyeol is standing tall against the winds, and his hands not only hold fire, they welcome it. The taller’s entire palm is covered in a coppery, molten substance, the flames sitting on his fingertips steadily fighting off the rain, face florid in the waning light of this fire. 

Baekhyun screams, fear and disbelief climbing their way through his throat, and suddenly the light is completely gone, and there is only a scorching hand pressed against his mouth, suffocating him and silencing his cries. The taller boy is closer now, nose pressed against his forehead, and Baekhyun is stumbling away from him in fear, entire body trembling. 

“Stay quiet, and I’ll get you an act,” Chanyeol’s face dances across his vision, as radiant as the moon, as bright as the fire that kissed his fingertips seconds earlier. “No more background music and sharing with other musicians. Your own room, your own costumes, your performance. I promise. Just forget everything you’ve seen.”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this was ok :( love u guys! 
> 
> ao3: baekyall  
> twitter: baekyalls  
> other: curiouscat.me/baekyall


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait, hope you like it!! 🧡✨

Baekhyun wakes up slowly, the acrid bile he’d heaved onto the muddy ground the night before still burning in the back of his throat. His entire body is unbearably warm, clothes soaked under a thin layer of sweat, no doubt the product of the storm, of his prolonged exposure to it.

But this fever is the least of his worries. Still sleepy, his mind replays Chanyeol’s dark eyes illuminated by firelight, replays the way he had scrambled away from the taller in fright, mind whirring out explanations that will never fully make sense, his stomach retching at the panic that resided in Chanyeol’s features, too. He’d run then, ignoring the offer spat in his face and the lack of logical explanation for the scene he’s trying to escape, welcoming the angry storm’s winds. 

It had felt like hours that he sprinted into the cold rain, mouth burning from where Chanyeol hands had touched him, grip tight and gaze steady. And by the time he stumbled back to familiarity, finally escaping the waning rain, soaking wet and shaking, he’d wanted to do nothing more than strip to his underclothes and crawl into bed. Eyes shut tight, he murmured a little prayer, the same one he’d heard years ago from a foreign mouth, whispered faintly against the silence of a frigid alleyway -- a prayer to wake up the next morning.

And it had worked, he supposes, though the pounding in his head and taste in his mouth makes him doubt if it was for the better, after all. 

He blinks away the clouds in his vision, trying to sit up and find any of the other musical performers he shares his tent with. Jinki, Taemin, and Kibum are all gone, however -- and when he hears the birds singing outside, he knows that he’s overslept, that this explains their absence. 

He gets dressed hastily, not bothering to apply any pink salve on his lips, too tired to decorate his cheekbones with dusted gold -- not this early, not when his mind can only think one thing: _people can’t control fire like that._ Or at least, they _shouldn’t_ be able to. 

Minseok is the one he must find, for he’s wiser by both years and experience, for he values Baekhyun’s safety and sanity as much as his own. Certainly, Minseok's delicate hands will hold his, and, undoubtedly, the older’s sharp tongue will shelter him from Chanyeol's fiery gaze. He leaves his tent, legs buckling under the sleep-induced static engulfing them, and has to force himself to focus on the emerald shirt of the dancer that passes him, if only to stabilize himself against the residual shock of it all. 

Hangovers have never grounded him so wholly, but he’s also never seen a human hand holding fire, never felt his pulse quicken at the thought of some kind of witchcraft and sorcery only inches from him. _There are no rules here,_ Minseok’s voice races through his mind, and his own chimes in, too, a cacophony of panic screaming _nothing makes sense._

His brain is muddled with confusion and paranoia, each new thought blindsiding him, and it completely disarms his senses, leaving him unaware of the countless people and colors that pass by, numbing the intense beams of sunlight on his face. He knows there are performers looking at him strangely, and he’s vaguely aware that he looks disheveled and uncharacteristically plain at the moment, that his legs wobble their way across the grass as though he’s never walked before. And he also knows that, somewhere in this chaos, Chanyeol exists, brimming with strange threats and promises, filled with a fire Baekhyun can never hope to extinguish. 

These distractions are enough to keep him from seeing the familiar body approaching his -- and so his shoulder hits Sehun’s upper arm harshly, painfully. It sends him stumbling into the taller's arms, dazed, a mess of static limbs and flooded thoughts. Ordinarily, he would welcome this embrace, would melt into Sehun’s touch and stand a little taller, hoping for a small dose of affection from him -- but today he can only think of the strangeness of the night before, can only step away from the performer in a haste. 

"Baekhyun?" Sehun's face shows concern, though his voice denotes a tiny amount of confusion, amusement even. "You look as though you've seen a ghost." 

And, _oh,_ Baekhyun wishes he had -- a specter would’ve perplexed him less. He imagines that stormy night again, only this time he’s intercepted by a womanly apparition, and his hand passes through her when he reaches out to help; he is terrified, yes, but it is a ghost, it is something he’d been raised on stories of. This fright isn’t foreign, unlike the fear that had gripped him so completely the night before, the unfamiliarity before his eyes. None of his clients or acquaintances had ever gleefully whispered of a man who can control fire, of a creature that can hold the flames as easily as he holds Sehun’s attention, not the way they’d whispered about ghouls and goblins and spirits. 

“Hungover,” he mumbles out, voice as raspy as he’d expected it to be. Sehun’s gaze trails from his haggard appearance to the purple marks across his collarbones, barely visible -- or so Baekhyun thought. He likes the affectionate twinkle of Sehun’s smile when he catches sight of them, likes the way his stomach boils over at the memories of it all.

“Too much wine? Bad headache?” there’s a finger on the bow of his lips, and Baekhyun recoils as if Sehun’s fingertips could hide embers, too. “I should’ve gone easier on you last night, I suppose. Next time, tell me if --” 

“I’m feeling fine. Promise. Just need to get some breakfast and talk to Minseok.” 

Sehun only nods, and then his lips are pressed against Baekhyun’s, the pendant of one of his necklace’s colliding with the hickeys on the shorter’s neck, cold against his sensitive skin, frigid against the fire that’s been trapped under it since the night before. 

Fever, he thinks -- this fever will eat him alive, just like Chanyeol’s hands and voice already are.

“He is in Jongdae’s tent, I believe,” Sehun’s breath is warm against his lips when he says it, but all Baekhyun can think about is the palm that burned so similarly. “Or at least, he was. Something about borrowing clothes and jewelry.” 

With a final press of lips from his lover, Baekhyun is set adrift in the sea of people once again, alone and fatigued, the weight of his sanity crushing him. 

\--

Minseok is half naked when Baekhyun peeks through the curtain of Jongdae’s tent. He’s talking boisterously with the boy sat on the bed, laughs pealing louder with every passing second, and Baekhyun admires the curve of his defined chest and stomach, noticing the way Jongdae slaps his own knee in protest of the trapeze artist’s words. 

Looking into the tent of a magician is much like he’d imagined -- bursting with patterns and fabrics, a feast for the eyes, a confusing setup with tricks that elude even the keenest viewer. There are dried flowers and candles all around, a faint scent of incense clouding the entire tent, making Minseok and his giggly attitude illusive to the youngest, as if Baekhyun will wake up from a confusing dream any moment, wondering just when magic will stop being real, when the fog of laughter will evaporate from his lungs. Their exchange, with faces dimly lit and words steeped in fondness, feels so familiar -- clearly intimate -- and Baekhyun wants nothing more than to invade this and soak up a portion of the tenderness flowing between the two. 

He wants too much, he knows, but it isn’t all for naught -- his need for approval, for care, has lead him into this life, into Sehun’s arms, and now further into this tent.  

“Minseok?” Baekhyun ventures to speak as he steps inside, sparing a smile for the magician watching him, shocked. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Kim Jongdae, it’s a pleasure. I’m Byun Baekhyun, a pianist.” 

At this, the man stands to greet him, smiling and warm, a summer’s day landscape come to life in front of him, all crinkled eyes and plump cheeks. His hand against Baekhyun’s feels like the moment before a sunset, fading and pink, trees dancing in the wind, a mother calling their child closer -- he is comforting. 

“Hello, Baekhyun,” his hand rubs Baekhyun’s arm before it rests on his shoulder, gentle as the ripples across the pond in the painting he must’ve leapt out of. “So polite and so pretty. Minseok’s told me all about you, and you’re even lovelier in person.” 

“Stop fawning on him, that’s my job,” Minseok teases, awakening Baekhyun from the foggy stupor Jongdae’s touch had put him in. “Also, he’s not even wearing his usual makeup and outfit. He is _sublime_ then.” 

This praise makes Baekhyun turn, delighted at the words, and he realizes that Minseok is not topless anymore. There’s a lilac shirt stretched across his back, a checkered pattern on it that makes him look even younger, if possible.

“You can just call me Jongdae,” the magician squeezes Baekhyun’s shoulder twice, and then he’s walking delicately toward Minseok, mumbling about a fragrance he should try -- something to do with peaches. They both laugh, and Baekhyun walks forward unconsciously, drunk off the feeling of safety they give him. 

Together, they are a picnic scene painted in oil and framed in gold, just like the painting above Yerim’s fireplace. And Baekhyun wants nothing more than to sit riverside and eat fruits, Sehun’s adoring gaze and Minseok’s caring words shrouding him from all the evils of the world, from all the boys who threaten to burn him, who entice him with pretty words and prettier smiles. 

 _Boys who threaten to burn him_. 

Minseok says something quietly that makes Jongdae bend over in giggles, and Baekhyun suppresses all the thoughts of the night before, of the fear he’d felt -- it’s not Minseok’s burden to bear with him. The questioning and confusion is best if it belongs to one person only, especially if his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, if the things he’d seen were true. 

“I like the shirt, Minseok,” he basks in the glow of Jongdae’s smile, of Minseok’s curious glance toward him. “The color is so pretty on you.” 

“You only like it because it matches the marks all over you,” Minseok teases as he paints his lids a twinkling silver; Jongdae practically yells out a laugh, the sound as deafening as the blood rushing to Baekhyun’s cheeks. “I wasn’t aware you were such a fan of purple until this moment.” 

“Leave the kid alone,” Jongdae defends him, though Baekhyun can see just how hilarious he thinks this all is, just how much he wants to laugh loudly again. Even if it’s at his expense, he wants to hear their giggles and words directed toward him, and so he refrains from covering the hickeys with his hand -- maybe he likes the looks they’ll garner from others. 

“I’ll see you tonight, after the show?” Baekhyun asks, face red, heart beating far too fast from embarrassment and happiness combined into one. “Good luck, Minseok. And nice to meet you, Jongdae. I hope to see you again.” 

“Well, of course. Now that you’ve met me, you’ll never escape my endless charms.” 

\--

 _Dear Mr. Cho_ , 

_Could you perhaps ask Yerim if she has any books on the subject of individuals with preternatural inclinations? I know she always has a book in her hand, and recently I’ve become interested in the subject, as the circus inspires a side of me which is less than logical. I would love to receive a book from my lovely student when I see her next, in exchange for all the knowledge I could hope to share with her._

_There is no real news, which is good -- it is rainy season, and we dread a flood more than anything. Recently I have grown closer to Kim Jongdae, a magician -- the same one who proposed to his girlfriend (a dancer named Dahye, I’ve learned) in my last correspondence. And I do believe Yerim would be enthralled by his act in the show._

_Please tell me of anything interesting on your end, as, unfortunately, even the circus cannot always be entertaining._

_Best wishes for your health,_

_Byun Baekhyun_

\--

It’s drizzling, wet and humid outside, and Baekhyun had run into the main tent to escape it all, hoping for a few scraps leftover from dinner -- he hadn’t grabbed enough earlier, and Sehun’s relentless touches leave him exhausted and hungry. He’d trudged through the thick air, mind occupied with thoughts of the books Yerim may bring him, of the days that have passed without any fear boiling in his veins, of the joke Sehun whispered into the crown of his head minutes before.

He’s found that avoiding Chanyeol is easy, though avoiding thoughts of him is far harder to accomplish, especially since he has the ringmaster wrapped around his finger, since the other musicians whisper about the sight of his rare smiles when they think no one is listening. 

The sun has risen and fallen many times since the night their gazes burned against each other, twin flames drowning in a storm, and Baekhyun thinks that, maybe, it had been his mind playing a trick on him. Post-coital bliss and a lingering buzz from alcohol must’ve made him see things out there, must’ve warped his mindset to that of a homesick sailor, forced his addled mind to see a mermaid in murky water, even if, deep down, he knows it must’ve been a whale -- the waves of rain must’ve obscured everything he knew to be true. 

Baekhyun’s hands drip with moisture as he fumbles around the kitchen, eyes searching for something to snack on for the walk back to his tent, stomach rumbling with a startling greed. He’d never been raised to feel like this, to eat like this, to waste like this -- but he doesn’t mind overindulging in wine and food, in feasting on the pleasures of conversation and touch, not when he thinks of dirty streets and shaking voices. The circus allows him to live free from the looming fear of destitution for the first time, and, most importantly, it has given him a taste for decadence, for another’s attention. 

He spins, a heel of honey-slathered bread in his hand, a cup of lukewarm cider in the other, stilling completely when he notices a tall figure backing slowly into the tent, his careful hands gently closing it behind him and wiping water from his face. His back is broad, shirt nearly soaked, and his hands are too familiar -- Baekhyun knows exactly how they feel against his lips, knows how they taste bathed in heat and drenched with raindrops. Chanyeol is here, with him, and there is nobody around, no person to save him from the burns waiting to blossom on his skin. 

When he turns and finally sees Baekhyun, the shorter hopes the terror holding him captive isn’t too evident in his eyes, breathing temporarily halted and hands tightening around his food. Except, Chanyeol pays him no mind -- he shuffles toward the stew atop the counter, eyes downcast, and Baekhyun watches his tongue dart out nervously in the eerie silence of the tent. Maybe he _had_ dreamed it all, if Chanyeol’s actions are any indication, and now he’s stricken with fear in a way he hadn’t expected.

“We always catch each other in the rain, I noticed.”

Baekhyun waits for a response, _any_ response, because, as frightened of the taller as he has been and forever will be, the lack of reaction from Chanyeol made him feel empty and foolish, made him feel as though his brain concocted it all as a joke on its owner.

He wants Chanyeol to act confused, to introduce himself sheepishly, to let Baekhyun capture his attention and forget his mistaken memory. Baekhyun doesn’t want the performer to look through him like that first night, doesn’t want to feel alone in his recollections, doesn’t want to feel as though he’s invisible again. 

“Are you hungry? I took the last of this bread loaf, I apologize. But I can make you some tea, if you’d like. I’m Byun Baekhyun, a pianist, by the way -- I thought you would recognize me from that night, from the way you --” 

“I do not know what you think you saw, but I want you to extinguish your imagination now,” Chanyeol’s voice is as deep as he remembered, and it makes him shiver, suddenly very aware that his face and hair are wet, chilled to the touch. Another fever will visit him tomorrow, he fears -- if his actions even permit him to see dawn once again. “You have not spoken of that night to anyone?” 

A drop of water slides down Chanyeol’s cheek and hits the counter. Baekhyun watches it move weakly, no current to carry it any further, and startles when Chanyeol wipes it promptly with his damp shirt sleeve. He tries to ignore the way the taller is inching closer, gentle demeanor fading with each second. 

“I would not know how to explain what I’d seen,” he sips from his cup of cider, hoping this action will cover the goosebumps across his arms -- excitement or fear, he can’t tell. “Though I’ve tried, certainly.” 

And Chanyeol is only a foot away now -- so close, so warm -- that Baekhyun almost _wants_ him to close their distance, almost wishes to leap across the miniscule canyon between them, to light the fire in his hands and leave marks on his shoulders and neck, tiny and pink and more beautiful than the splotches of purple that Sehun paints. 

“No, I haven’t told anyone,” he clarifies quickly, a self-preservation instinct taking control.

He desperately wants Chanyeol to see him for the first time, finally unobstructed by Minseok’s arms or an abhorrent storm, but he also wants to avoid the pain this man can bring him so easily.  

“Keep silent, and you will keep your place in this circus,” Chanyeol’s presence sucks the air out of his lungs, leaves him fighting for oxygen in a smoke-filled room -- he likes attention, likes being coddled, but Chanyeol’s eyes on him makes his fingers tremble in a way that he can’t understand, that he’s never felt before. “Forget it completely, and I will act on my promise -- your own part in the circus. A better one.”

And maybe it’s the way he aches to move closer, the way he yearns to find the words he’d always chased after to describe the taller, but he doesn’t want to back down. There is heat in every fibre of Chanyeol’s being, and Baekhyun wants to add fuel, wants to let it consume him whole, if only to keep those pretty eyes on him. 

“Why must I forget something if it’s all in my imagination?” 

He thinks of the first night at the circus, of the way Chanyeol had glared straight through him to speak to Minseok, of the way he’d so craved for the star of the show to focus on him -- he thinks to the times Sehun had held him and, somewhere in the most dreadful corners of his mind, he’d pictured hands drowning in rubies and blisters instead.

“You must forget so that your friends don’t get it into their heads, too. I don’t long for the other performers’ attention, curiosity, or company,” his voice drops, barely a whisper. “Not as you so clearly do.”

Baekhyun is aware of his wide-blown eyes, of the purple that lines his throat, of the way he dances and sings with everyone after each performance -- loud, clinging, draped over any shoulder he can get close to -- but hearing this _hurts_. Yes, he longs to be adored by everyone he encounters, and there’s nothing wrong with that, he reminds himself. 

And so he stands on the tips of his toes, putting his lips into the shell of Chanyeol’s ear, a sad gratification sizzling in his throat at the way the taller jerks back in surprise.

“I won’t say a thing as long as you keep your promise -- as long as you stop saying things to hurt me.” 

Chanyeol says nothing in return; the taller simply watches as Baekhyun drops back to his normal height and hurries into the night, unsteady hands filled with his dessert, ears ringing with anger and shame. 

_\--_

“Have you not stretched in your entire life?” 

Baekhyun groans in response, annoyed at her tone, even if she’s joking. Song Qian has no right to tease him for this, not when her entire life is built around flexibility and dancing, when her and Jongin naturally curve into each other’s hands. 

“Pianists usually don’t do handstands or flips, no.”

He can barely even feel his toes right now, he’s leaning so far forward -- all thanks to the foot Song Qian is pressing harshly into the small of his back, forcing him closer to the ground. In the rush of air and pain swirling through his brain, he thinks he can hear Jongin snickering somewhere in the distance, though he’s too tired to lift his head and confirm it. He’s been avoiding thinking about his conversation with Chanyeol in the kitchen two days prior, but now, with only this acute pain and suffering on his mind, even that interaction seems pleasant. 

“Well, you should at least be able to do the splits,” her voice is filled with happiness, and Baekhyun chooses to believe it is because she enjoys instructing so much, and not because his stretching is pitifully amusing in her eyes. “Your life is a circus show, after all.” 

“It hurts!” 

Song Qian’s foot is gone from him, and Baekhyun is sitting up as quickly as he can, gasping as he makes eye contact with the beautiful girl smiling down at him. Her lipstick is blood red today, which Baekhyun finds a little silly, as they had foregone a night of celebration and drinking in order to stretch and talk -- why look good for an empty ring, for a night of quiet chatter with a close friend?

“Don’t whine, you baby,” Song Qian settles down next to him, lithe figure making a surprisingly loud thud against the mat under them both, her next words directed over her shoulder. “Go away, Jongin. You can be perverse somewhere else. Bring fruit back when you come home.” 

Baekhyun isn’t sure if he actually leaves, but then Song Qian’s hand is wrapping around his arm, eyes curious and gentle. Her earrings have three tiers to them, and Baekhyun counts the four pearls among the multicolored jewels in them, connects them in a shape he’ll sketch in his notebook later.

“Are you okay? Your face is so pink.”

“I feel my pulse in my feet. You need to take me to the medical tent, please.” 

They laugh, shoulders together, the air turning sweet. Being with her feels like walking into a field of flowers, a mother, a confidant, a friend -- she is the first person he’d met here, and she will be the person he protects beyond all reason. He’d been raised around women with long hair and longer dresses, with prim and proper mistresses who raise their voices, warning him to refrain from touching anything besides the piano lest he dirty it.  

But here she sits, hair cropped and filled with glitter, eyelashes impossibly long and lips the color of expensive silken sheets.

“Can I ask you something?” 

She smiles, and Baekhyun feels as though he could go a week without eating, full from her undivided attention, from her gentle nod. “Of course. Can I get a question in return, then?” 

“Yes, yes,” and suddenly he’s eager to share about himself, to speak of his own emotions and thoughts with someone who will _care_. “I feel taken care of here, but I am still new. I’m just curious, is all -- what do you know about the people here?” 

And she gives him all the answers he could ever want, her voice silken and a little sad at some parts, but tone always open, always giving. She whispers of  the big family of daughters she’d been born into, about the choice she made when she got on a late-night boat to Korea, when she threw away her childhood. 

“Leave or be married within the month,” her mother had whispered, voice frail, a crack in Song Qian’s heart deepening at the sound. “I have delayed your engagement with the Zhao’s boy long enough. Unless there is no daughter to send them, there is no way to delay it further. If I am never to see my daughter again, I would rather she decides.” 

And she tells of Kyungsoo’s collection of books -- far too large for a trapeze artist, she reckons -- and her voice turns raw when she informs him of the family he sends all of his earnings to, even if it means he borrows costumes from Jongdae and Minseok, even if it leaves with him less pocket money than even the cleaning and cooking staff. 

“Other performers spend their paychecks on the booze, or on trips into town to see the picture shows,” she’d used her long nails to scratch at Baekhyun’s forearm then, soothingly, eyes focused on something in the distance. “But he only ever keeps a few coins for himself. I know he will never admit this, but he doesn’t want to be here, truly.” 

Baekhyun didn’t know what to think, especially when she leaned her head on his shoulder, hair tickling his neck softly, and told her final story, the one about a boy who was raised alongside the ringmaster as a brother, whose entire life exists in this ring only, who refuses to talk to other performers and hides away when he’s not performing. 

“This is Chanyeol’s home,” she ends her tales with a finality that makes Baekhyun sigh, eyes shut against the now-dull pain lingering in his legs and back. He feels tired, the weight of this knowledge heavy as it settles in his chest. “Now, it’s time for my question.” 

“Ask anything, Song Qian,” Baekhyun smiles down at her, thrilled by her radiant stare back, by the stars she’s hidden in her eyes. “I’ll do my best to answer it.” 

“Why did the ringmaster task me to train you to be Chanyeol’s assistant?” 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how are we FEELING? sorry again for the wait, but i really hope you enjoy this! thanks if you read! 
> 
>  
> 
> twitter: @baekyalls  
> aff: baekyall  
> curiouscat: curiouscat.me/baekyall


	4. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick note: i'm going to edit this again in the morning, so if you're reading right as it's posted, i apologize for being incoherent lol 
> 
> hope you enjoy anyway!
> 
> omg p.s. there's little ear piercing scene? nothing graphic but if that freaks you out, just tell me in the comments and i'll fill you in on the dialogue of that scene!

_Dear Mr. Cho,_

_Life has changed rather quickly for me. It seems as though Park Chanyeol, the performer I penned a letter about and sent a drawing of once before, wants me to assist him in his act along with my current piano position. I am not quite qualified for this yet, but I will do my best. Everything is changing, and I fear that I might be too busy to write regularly; forgive me if my letters are farther apart, but, hopefully, I will have more stories to fill them with._

_I cannot wait for both you and Yerim to meet him in the future -- he is special, certainly. I cannot put it into words. (Sometimes, I am afraid to try.)_

_Please let Yerim know that I miss our lessons dearly. I have set aside a pair of amethyst earrings for her, gifted to me by the contortionist named Song Qian. I hope this piece of the circus will sparkle as brightly as the future you have granted me._

_Forever grateful,_

_Byun Baekhyun_

\-- 

Red had never been a color he’d gravitated toward, normally favoring pastels that remind him of art he’d stared at on parlor walls, of watercolor tea cups he’d held delicately on plush chaises. But now crimson and ruby and scarlet fill his horizon, blooming roses and droplets of blood staining his every belonging. His wardrobe -- the new one, in his new tent, far from the noise of the parties and directly across from Chanyeol’s own -- is carefully curated with only the most fiery of shades, with the hottest pinks and brightest oranges, too.

This new tent is nice, just as nice as the other lavish things that had been thrown to him -- the rubies and diamonds amongst his favorites, closely followed by the bottles of cologne and makeup. He basks in the luxury of it all, in the foreignness of this pampering, even if he knows the truth of his new act, lodging, and possessions. 

Chanyeol is bribing him, clearly. There is no threat that would work better on Baekhyun, after all -- a grasp at wealth, proximity to the lights and fame, security in this unstable world sparkle brighter than most anything else. He longs for affection and happiness in this life more than he’s longed for anything before, and Chanyeol knows it, knows his fears and dreams and thoughts; he sees through Baekhyun as though he’s glass. 

And Baekhyun accepts the new things he must learn to do, the new responsibilities he faces -- Chanyeol will give him anything he so desires, backed by the ringmaster financially, and he will keep his promise as long as Baekhyun keeps his silence. It’s odd, he thinks, for all of this to be his -- Chanyeol could’ve just denied that meeting in the pouring rain had ever happened. 

As he paints his lips a burnt orange, he wonders if the taller had _wanted_ someone to know a secret about him, even if the consequences outweigh all logic, even if Baekhyun is the last person he’d hoped to run into that night. He looks into his own eyes, trying to imagine what Chanyeol had seen reflected in them -- a flash of lightning, or fear, or hope? -- and sees only charcoal covered eyelashes and shimmering cheekbones. 

Despite all the fears about Chanyeol’s hands and eyes and the fire that lives in them both, Baekhyun wants to think he can read him like a page out of his own journal, and he hopes that Chanyeol is just lonely, too -- he hopes that Chanyeol’s secret can become his own, that deep down, he’d wanted to share it all along. It’s the only reason Baekhyun can think of for his remaining here, for Junmyeon refraining from kicking him out the second he’d learned anything that could bring the downfall of his precious circus, of the world he’s built around it. 

He remains in this circus because Chanyeol hadn’t forced him out, even when he had reason to, even when it wouldn’t be hard for him to do -- he remains here because, as unfortunate as it may seem, Baekhyun is the only other person who knows this side of him. 

And he thinks back to that first night when Chanyeol’s eyes saw through him so easily, when his heart had leapt to capture that glance for his own. Sighing to himself and surrounded by newfound splendor, he watches the faint light in his eyes turn to flames with each fingertip of gold he paints across his eyelids.

\-- 

Ringmaster Junmyeon and his office are both as unusually plain as the first time he’d visited, his clothes ragged and mind racing with only a note in his pocket. Both are beautiful, though Junmyeon’s bare face and simple walls don’t compare with the silken grandeur the rest of the circus holds, with the exotic scents and sights that greet his every sense with each step. Here, it feels like a metropolitan room, crammed and in need of windows, aching for new textures. It’s the same, and Baekhyun wishes it wasn’t, wishes that a sliver of the tapestries and color schemes could slither their way into the ringmaster’s world.

Except this time, he enters with tinted nails and plump lips, his pale yellow shirt resting, rather unbuttoned, comfortably across his shoulders -- it’s far too large for him, but Sehun likes when his shoulders are out, when sunshine pools in the hollows of his collarbones. And he likes the way Jongin stares at the fading bruises on his neck, the way Minseok purses his lips and tries to cover them in vain, his parental concern warming Baekhyun’s cheeks. 

Instead of only the charming, proud ringmaster waiting for him, there is another, taller boy here today, leaning down to whisper heatedly with Junmyeon. Baekhyun counts the rubies that line his fingers, giving up at the sixth, instead trying to read his expression -- but he gives up on that, too, because Chanyeol looks back at him so suddenly that he jumps and averts his eyes. 

“Ah, Baekhyun, you’ve arrived.” 

He bows to the ringmaster, fully aware of why he’s been called in, pleasantly surprised at the calm in his chest. He can’t fully understand why there is a lack of fear, but then he looks up to meet Chanyeol’s wide-eyed gaze once again, and it hits him easily: he holds something over Chanyeol’s head, a secret that he still can’t quite believe, a story he’s kept from sharing, a future he could’ve only dreamed of. 

“Hello, sir, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” he shakes hands with Junmyeon, and he notices a new poster pinned up behind the shorter man, advertising the Elyxion Circus in gold letters against a dark violet background, the same colors as the suit he wears currently. Royal colors suit him. “I hope you’ve been well, and that I’ve done my job up to your standards.” 

“Of course. But that’s not why you’re here today.” 

The air is heavy when Baekhyun takes a breath, electrified with Junmyeon’s focused gaze and Chanyeol’s intimidating stature. He wades through it anyway, nodding and smiling at the tallest performer -- and flinches when Chanyeol doesn’t reciprocate the action, a minor chip in the confidence he’d been so protected by recently.

“I assume you’ve settled into your new accomodations well? Everything is comfortable?” Junmyeon asks this of Baekhyun, though his eyes focus only on Chanyeol, something unsaid boiling between them, threatening to engulf Baekhyun if he lets it. He decides he doesn’t want to be pulled under by their gazes, and treads against their tide wholeheartedly, deciding to act as clueless as possible for the next few minutes of his life, if only to save himself from another potential conflict. Dripping wet Chanyeol in an empty kitchen holds far fewer cards than Chanyeol slouching next to the ringmaster, acting as though _he_ owns this office, and Baekhyun wants to keep his head above the water, would do most anything to keep what’s been given to him.

“Of course, it’s much more than I need,” he ignores Chanyeol’s presence, even as he glitters in the corner of Baekhyun’s vision, a remnant of sunshine trapped in his eyes. “It all is, to be frank. I am not sure what the cause of the sudden change is, but I appreciate it greatly. I will do my best to make this circus gain an even more exquisite reputation.” 

Chanyeol laughs, and Baekhyun can’t help from looking over to see his lips curl over those pretty teeth, even if he knows the smile is at his expense, aimed toward his innocent act. He wants to find it humorous, too, but he can’t, not when his throat closes up at the thought of what might come next -- the tallest performer is never this pleased unless he’s on stage, getting the gratification he so desires. 

Suddenly, he sees, vision clear of all the dazzling rubies and metallic shine -- to these men, this meeting is all a performance: meant to be watched, meant to be judged, meant to be entertaining.

“There’s no need to play coy, Baekhyun. Chanyeol has informed me of how _well_ you are fit to be his assistant, and I could never deny him, especially when he begs me to pamper you so. I hope you will return his kindness with hard work.” 

Baekhyun knows well what this hard work is -- he understands that he is only to keep his mouth shut, to enjoy the things he would never have before, to bask in the attention he will garner from audience and fellow performers alike. And he also knows that Chanyeol’s eyes avoiding his only makes him want to press further into the issue, makes him want to ask Junmyeon what it all means.

He wants the _truth_ , but he receives only a probing look from Chanyeol and a pat on the back from the ringmaster, the weight of both crushing him gently. 

They leave the meeting together, shoulders uncomfortably close for a moment as they squeeze through the door, neither wanting the other to lead -- everything feels like a competition, and Baekhyun is sure he’ll be defeated soon, if Chanyeol’s hard eyes and tensed fists have any say. Back in the vivid world of the circus, Baekhyun breathes hard, practically inhaling the now-familiar scent of peanuts and alcohol, comfortable in the permeating heat from the popcorn machines and dangling chandeliers. 

Chanyeol stills next to him, and Baekhyun watches his face for a moment too long, noticing a plethora of details for his brain to process, mind associating his glossy eyes to the shining fireworks that dance across the sky each night, unconsciously comparing the natural pink of the taller’s lips to his own, satisfied when he imagines how beautiful they’d look covered in a pink salve, how soft they’d be against Baekhyun’s fingertips. He wonders if, somehow, he could pry his way into Chanyeol’s chest and burrow, experienced hands playing the melody to Chanyeol’s favorite song on his heartstrings -- the same way he plays the piano. Maybe, he could own a part of Chanyeol’s mind and forget about any threats the taller may pose, assured with adoration. With these calloused hands, he could soothe Chanyeol’s loneliness the same way he’s captured Sehun’s imagination, the same way he thinks he might’ve enthralled Jongin’s curiosity, too. 

“Meet me tomorrow morning outside of your tent,” Chanyeol’s voice is as deep as ever, and it shocks Baekhyun just as much as it always has, lighting a fire in his cheeks when he realizes he’s startled visibly. “Right after breakfast. We need to train. You need a lot of work.” 

The circus has taught Baekhyun many things, and how to _feel_ is top of the list -- his desires drive his every movement now, so he smiles back at Chanyeol, determined to ensure his own future in exchange for a captive heart. 

“I look forward to it.” 

\--

_Baekhyun,_

_I suppose you possess other talents than piano, if you are to be working with the most well-known performer at the circus! Good for you, my dear boy. I do wonder if the rumors of his poor attitude and exceptional -- almost unbelievable, I am told -- talent are true? I would love to hear more before I am to meet the boy, as I wouldn’t want him being rude to Yerim. Wouldn’t want our flower being burned, would we?_

_  
She is doing well, as always, only complaining when her head hurts in the evenings and there is no Baekhyun to talk her ear off about growing up in filth, about sleeping with only the stars above -- she so adored your stories, no matter how sad the matter. Speaking of, she will bring you some fantastical books, just as you’ve asked, in exchange for those earrings._

_We will see you before you know it,_

_  
Cho Kyuhyun_

\--

Minseok’s hand holding his is much appreciated, especially when it’s paired with Jongdae’s lilting voice singing a folk song a few feet away, the pair as soothing and comforting as ever. Jongdae’s hips swing gently to his own melody, laughing when Minseok shoos him away from Baekhyun’s shaking figure. 

“You’re not helping,” the oldest chastises softly, fondly. “You’ll only make him more nervous.” 

“No, I’m distracting him. It’s more useful than babying him.” 

Song Qian’s nails are long and pointed, tinted a dark green color (which matches her eyeshadow and burgundy lips rather well, Baekhyun thinks) and they dig into his earlobe and shoulder simultaneously, both hands gripping him tightly. It’s about to happen, he realizes, and he tenses up involuntarily, trying to find amusement in Jongdae’s performance for him. 

“It’s almost over, Baekhyun,” she promises sweetly, and her nails are working a needle through his lobe, ripping his ear as carefully as she possibly could, tiny and quick but filled with white-hot pain. “See? Not too bad. Like a kitten scratching you.” 

The only kittens Baekhyun can remember had all been ugly little things, brought up on the streets by their alley-cat mothers, and they’d avoided him no matter how he cooed at them, no matter what piece of his own meal he’d dangled in front of them. He’d never even gotten close enough to one to get scratched, but he nods along to the comparison anyway, focusing on the way Minseok’s fingers wrap around his instead. 

“Hand me the earring, Jongin. Please.” 

Said boy barely turns around, his head shaking in desperation as he thrusts his hand forward, a diamond stud between his pointer finger and thumb. He holds it like it’s infected, and avoids Baekhyun as though he is, too -- too afraid of both needles and blood to be of any help during this procedure. Song Qian takes it with the hand that doesn’t rest on Baekhyun’s throbbing ear, and Jongdae giggles at their interaction. 

“Am I bleeding?” Baekhyun asks quietly, only slightly afraid of the answer; he’s mostly amused by the face Jongin pulls at the words, horrified and nauseous. 

“ _Don’t_ answer him!” his palms cover his entire face now, and Baekhyun spots the second sparkling earring sitting on the dancer’s thigh. _Cute_ , he muses to himself -- Jongin is very cute. “I do _not_ want to know the answer!” 

“Only a little blood. One more ear, darling.”

Baekhyun gets used to the stinging in his left ear rather quickly, focusing on the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he prepares himself to feel that same jolt of pain in his right.

“This doesn’t hurt much, Jongin. You should try it.” 

He wants them all to think he’s brave and funny -- teasing Jongin even as his ears are pierced, laughing even as his heart hammers through his chest, charming Chanyeol even as he doubts his own sanity. He also wants to look good when it’s all done -- he wants dangling pearls and emeralds in due time, wants to be a glimmering gem in the sea of silk tapestries and colorful patterns, a beacon of light in a flood of personalities and voices. 

“Don’t joke about it. I would never. I can’t believe _you_ are,” Jongin is pouting, he can tell, even if the majority of his facial features are covered by tanned hands and an amethyst ring. “Did Chanyeol make you do this? Is he trying to stake his claim by _maiming_ you?” 

It suddenly grows far too silent for Baekhyun’s liking, and he knows that Jongin has mentioned the one thing everyone had been avoiding, the topic that he’d kept locked away for the moment. He doesn’t know _what_ to tell others who ask about his and Chanyeol’s odd relationship, about their new partnership -- he doesn’t know how to explain his sudden rise in the ranks, or the way he secretly likes all this attention. 

“No, _I_ wanted this. If I’m to be his assistant, I want to stand out as much as he does, after all.” 

The hand in his tightens its grip, and Baekhyun looks up to Minseok’s dandelion yellow cheeks, to the dots of white, yellow, and green he’s painted across his eyelids -- tulips dancing in the breeze, he’d explained. He looks concerned, scared even, and Baekhyun smiles back, ignoring the sharp pinch of Song Qian’s nails on his right earlobe, on the way the needle settles into his plush skin so easily, no doubt drawing a drop of blood to match his new wardrobe, his new life. 

“Why _are_ you his assistant?” Minseok almost whispers it. Jongin’s expressive brown eyes peek from behind his fingers, rolling back when he sees the scene in front of him, and then he’s gone again, hidden behind feelings that Baekhyun wants to explore. 

“I’m curious too. Chanyeol is either completely smitten with you, or he owes you.”

Jongdae has no doubt in his voice as he says it. Baekhyun wishes he wasn’t so sure of himself, wasn’t so close to getting him to spill it all, even if it gets him kicked out of the circus, even if it threatens his safety. He wishes he had it in him to joke about the possibility of Chanyeol _owing_ _him_ , but then there’s fire flashing in his mind, burning hands against his lips, and he’s not sure he should discuss this at all. 

“Which is it, Baekhyun?” Minseok prods his side with tiny fingers in perfect time with the needle kissing his skin, both acts making him squirm with discomfort, a whine slipping from his mouth. 

Song Qian kisses the crown of his head softly, a gentle apology, and everything is forgiven. 

“I know as much as you do. I have no reason to believe he’s infatuated with me, but I also know he owes me nothing. I think he simply wanted an assistant, and the ringmaster suggested me.”

Jongin scoffs loudly, hand outstretched with the second earring and eyes looking somewhere above Baekhyun, as to avoid any incidents with losing his consciousness. 

“What?” 

“Chanyeol doesn’t need an assistant. He never will. His act is set in stone, and he’s beloved by everyone -- why would he want to throw a new face into that? He wants to control you, somehow, I’m sure.” 

He’s right, and Baekhyun doesn’t like it. He also doesn’t like the uncomfortable pain in his ears or the thought of what Sehun will say when he sees him next. Even more, he doesn’t like the thought of losing this makeshift family and new life, of going back to playing for scraps each day, of dull clothes and lonely nights. 

“I don’t know why I’m suddenly in his life or his act, but I will not fight a chance to make a name for myself,” Baekhyun is resolute to make his point, to cast away any doubts, even when Jongin shakes his head in disbelief once again, even when Minseok tilts his head in worry. “It’s what we _all_ came here to do.”

Song Qian steps away, smiling as though there is no tense air clouding the tent, as though the Chanyeol conversation had never occurred. “All done!” 

He squeezes Minseok’s hand in thanks, grateful for the way Song Qian cards her long fingernails through his hair, inspecting the length and health of it through long eyelashes. 

“Jongin, he obviously doesn’t know why Chanyeol has singled him out. You are just jealous because you think he’s after Baekhyun’s heart, and you wish you had acted sooner. Don’t be childish.” 

There’s no composure left in this tent, not when Jongin’s yelling back awful things at her, angry and embarrassed and definitely, definitely childish. Jongdae and Minseok curl in on each other, laughing into each other’s shoulders and necks, and Baekhyun downs the last remains of whiskey in his glass. It feels like home, even as his head rings with pain. 

“Probably should’ve drank that _before_ you pierced your ears,” Song Qian giggles, her hands untangling from Baekhyun’s hair to cup his chin softly. “Now, what were you saying earlier? You want to dye your hair?” 

\-- 

The morning dew is cold against Baekhyun’s ankles, as frigid as late-spring rain against his back in a crowded alleyway, as cold as Sehun’s gaze when he’d seen the diamonds in Baekhyun’s ears and the flaming red hair atop his head. 

It’d been quiet, too silent to be considered normal, and Sehun’s eyes flickered with an unspoken question, with tiny flickers of fear that light up his face with the words _did you kiss Chanyeol, too?_ It was obvious to the shorter what Sehun’s first thought had been when he’d heard the news, and it was understandable, but it didn’t make the betrayal in both their eyes dim. 

They hadn’t fought, but a switch had been turned off in Baekhyun, leaving him listless against the lips on top of his -- the hands running up and down his sides softly felt more like unwelcome grazes in the crowds of the circus, not the velvet touch of someone he hopes to hold close. He’d closed his eyes against the light of the oil lamp in his tent, lulled himself into a stupor of warmth and familiarity, felt Sehun’s each and every move as if he was watching from outside his own body, a passerby in this exchange of passion.

He’d kissed the taller goodnight before it was time for him to sneak out of Baekhyun’s tent, as secretive and sweet as always. Alone, with only his journal and a confused mind, Baekhyun had curled into himself, concerned with the lack of heat in his cheeks, in his chest. At first, being with Sehun felt like discovering a hidden door inside his own mind, like figuring out the source of a patterned wallpaper after so many hours of staring, like his first sip of champagne in a glittering world. But the night before, he’d discovered he wanted something else that he can’t describe, something that sends him tunneling into an abyss of questions and self-doubt.

He’d turned back into that desperate, clawing boy who wanted nothing more than an ounce of affection to make him bloom, to fill the loneliness that ate away at his mornings and evenings without fail. With cold sheets against his bare skin and darkness clouding his eyes, he’d felt as though he’d used Sehun, as though Sehun had used him too, and he’d wanted nothing more than to cry -- so he did, face buried in his pillow, truly seeing himself for the first time in far too long. 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep the night before -- only moments of snotty tears and gasping breaths -- but he does remember waking up this morning, eyes crusted over and pillow stained a light pink from his newly-dyed hair. Now, in the early morning light, he doesn’t know what to do besides shun Sehun from his mind and focus on the fact that Chanyeol will be here soon, that he must train today, no matter how much he wants to feast on breakfast and sit in the grass out front of the tent all afternoon, sketching the sky and singing old songs with Jongdae before the chaos and festivities arrive with nightfall.

But that can’t happen, not when Chanyeol is stepping outside of his tent, black hair shiny in the sunlight, collarbones and shoulders visible under the mesh of his charcoal shirt. He’s always been pretty, Baekhyun knows -- he’s seen him perform many times, watched him command an audience’s attention as if it’s simple, glowing from the embers surrounding him, eyes and hair darker than the night’s sky. But it feels different when he sees him this time, all sharp angles and dark colors against an early morning backdrop, and Baekhyun realizes why very quickly: Chanyeol is staring straight back at him, studying his features carefully, intensely, and Baekhyun feels as though his wine-colored shirt was the right choice, feels as though there is a power in his every movement with this man staring so obviously.

“Good morning,” Baekhyun’s voice is far from smooth this early, but it doesn’t matter to the taller, doesn’t affect the way his eyes devour each inch of Baekhyun’s with interest. “Training day?” 

Chanyeol coughs away his evident shock, and Baekhyun knows he was right about Chanyeol keeping him around despite his best judgement -- he wants someone to talk to, uses this guise of blackmail and babysitting to keep from showing how he longs for a confidant, for Baekhyun to make him smile that pretty smile. He wants to try. 

“First of many,” his head tilts to the side slightly after he says it, almost friendly, and Baekhyun thinks he looks much younger like this, an ink splot spilled over the virgin canvas of this dawn, a fire trying its best to stay contained.

“Do you like my hair? I dyed it just for you and your performance.” 

Charm is the best way to go -- Chanyeol is far removed from the other performers, though Baekhyun has a feeling he truly wears his heart on his sleeve, that a loose shirt and fluttering eyes will erase their first meeting from Chanyeol’s mind, and those burning hands against his would obliterate any doubt in the taller’s mind. He’s always wanted the taller’s attention on him, and now he sees nothing but those eyes on his, and it’s exhilarating. 

“I made it look like fire,” he smiles, watching Chanyeol’s eyes bulge out, face hard with disbelief, still handsome. “I might blend in with the flames, so please take care. I’m flammable.” 

Baekhyun laughs, letting his eyes crinkle, letting his hand move to tuck a piece of red hair behind his ear, earrings and neck both on full display, both fully decorated for Chanyeol to observe. 

The taller doesn’t outwardly react, only turns on his heel and continues away from their tents, a wisp of smoke disappearing from Baekhyun’s grasp. 

“We have a lot to learn.” 

And Baekhyun follows him, ignoring the ugly feeling crawling from the pit of his stomach, the dejection that stains his cheeks pink and clouds his sleepy vision, the worry that settles in his mind no matter how hard he tries to suppress it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!! i updated!!!!!! i'm really loving writing baekhyun in this -- he likes attention and he's needy and kind of scheming, but he's also a big sweetie, and i just want the best for him ;_; 
> 
> how are we feeling? feedback is always appreciated, and i hope you're all having a good day/night ❤️✨
> 
> aff: baekyall  
> twitter: baekyalls  
> cc: curiouscat.me/baekyall

**Author's Note:**

> so....I tweeted about this as a joke....and then I couldn't stop thinking about it. So here's a circus!au perhaps? I hope you guys like, and I plan on continuing it because I think it'll be a fun one to write??? yeah 
> 
> (also: I will work on Serendipity more tomorrow, so I promise this won't delay it too much lol) 
> 
> comments and thoughts about this would always be appreciated <3333 love you guys!!!
> 
> aff: baekyall  
> twitter: baekyalls  
> other: curiouscat.me/baekyall


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